The Light's Executioner
by Jack Motley
Summary: The follow-up to Cast Into Light. Not all who are just become heroes, not all that is Light begets good, and not all those who harbor hate find peace. Resurrected from darkness, Cyndori Dawnstrider is the bearer and embodiment of the Light's fury.
1. Prologue

A fanfiction inspired and set within Blizzard Entertainment's Warcraft universe. This author owns nothing!

Read the first book, Cast Into Light, at: .net/s/5157883/1/Cast_Into_Light

**Prologue**

Bright sparks and brief, incandescence flares of orange and red flitter from my hammer's fall; a forging's violent afterbirth struck free as blunt, blackened and hardened iron shapes new life into a great heated slab of metal that was once a worn training sword, passed down, used by many hands, into my own as my instrument of hate. I am at home, here, amongst the scorching heat and noise of Silvermoon City's forge. The black thoughts of past and present drive the anger coursing hot through my veins as I drive a blacksmith's hammer into steel; passing on every scream of fear, every howl of rage, every mourning's tear flashed before my eyes and mind with each hammer's strike; reverberating powerfully a thunderous clamor through the forge that drives away apprentice, master, friend and stranger alike.

I lay hammer to blade one last time, and with great focus, lost within the darkness perpetuated by my own desire to dwell in equal parts misery and anger, I lift the forming crimson from magma and slide it into a pool of dirty, gray lukewarm water, tainted by the impurities and ash banished from a week's worth of forging. As hot mist rises from the pool, I take another deep breath and let it and the constant swelling of emotions depart from my body. I forge not only a weapon renewed. I forge once more from the same hot fire and ash: myself.

A cat mewls, resting upon a disused anvil to my side. The gray-furred and black-striped tabby stares at me with yellow-slit eyes, seemingly demanding nothing, but its cool, aloof demeanor speaks magnitudes after a week's worth of its constant companionship. Watching me as I work, often taking from me the bits of lunch my mentor and tirelessly patient and tolerant companion, Lady Nyssa, personally delivers. It does not appear bothered by the heat of the forge. I wonder—as I have become—has it as well become just another part of the flame, heat and obsidian metal of the forge.

"What do you think?" I ask the cat, offering it a quarter of a roll of bread stuffed with broiled lynx meat. It takes it from my fire-hardened fingers and sets it down on its paws to consume at its leisure, ignoring my inquiry. I half-heartedly smile, raising my hammer to rest over my shoulders. The cat does not care. "Profound insight, friend."

I harden my body, mind and soul, and breach once again that dark place full of demons unexorcised and memories devoid of solace. Pulling my sword once more from the cooling water, laying it once upon the anvil, far from my cat companion's perch, I hammer at its surface, turning it over, driving misshapenness from its surface and forming it into the image long since resided in my mind. As the blade cools, its silver sheen once more brought forth under my care, I take a small etching blade to its surface. My hands moving of some other force's accord, cryptic runes and elaborate, elegant letters appear in a language my mind cannot name, yet I can read but cannot speak nor replicate in writing, creating patterns of lines the path of a wicked, wandering butterfly dancing across silver sky. I recognize one: Karin, and the other: Veena. They appear on the great blade's edge by the work of my hand, guided by knowledge that is not my own.

"_M'uru,"_ I had before questioned the embodiment of the Light, the Naaru, deep within the depths of our Blood Knight's hall, "_Are these symbols and images of your own doing, or mine?"_

The great, cosmic being had replied in chimes and a musical voice in my mind, "_I do not know, Cyndori Dawnstrider."_ The beautiful, soothing sounds of its voice no comfort from the feeling of great doubt crept into my mind, understanding the magnitude of a greater being having no answers to the strange phenomenon plagued I since the first day of our campaign against Deatholme.

That was but a week ago: our reclamation of the lands of Eversong and the forsaken Ghostlands from the undead Scourge, driving them before us, back to the traitor elf Dar'khan Drathir's Scourge fortress, Deatholme. It was there, in those dark lands and in those dark labyrinths, did I finally exact vengeance upon one of many responsible for the deaths of my beloved wife, Karin, and my cherished daughter, Veena; lost during the invasion of the Scourge, led by the fallen Paladin and traitor prince, Arthas Menethil. Silvermoon and those once known as High Elves—blood vowed now as Blood Elves and consuming the fel energy of demons to satiate a magic lust in the void of our great Sunwell's destruction—once more know peace in what little lands left my people collectively remember as, Quel'thalas.

I feel contentment for my people and their successes. It was not I who raised the banner over Deatholme, but a youth of our people, backed and cheered by the more important many; risking their lives for a complacent populace satisfied only to hold the Scourge in check and survive. I took Dar'khan's head, but unlike my people, I shall know no peace until there are no more guilty heads to take.

My sword's blade cools still as my etching finishes and I raise it in front of me for one final inspection. It is a beautiful weapon, as heavy as when I first held it, yet I barely feel its weight in my arms and shoulders. The power of the Light runs through me, given to me and taken in great, selfish quantity from the Naaru, M'uru, granting strength of such unnatural potential, I feel as a dark, twisted monstrosity of what should be a good, merciful and righteous shell of an elven man. I am not good, I am not merciful, and I shall never proclaim myself righteous. As anger rises from memory and through my veins, the runes begin to glow and the blade coats with a golden fire. Its fire does not scorch my skin. I am the Light's Executioner.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

It has been a while since the first meeting between Lady Nyssa and I. Perhaps a length of time not measured in days and weeks, but in shades of minds, moods and perspectives her and I have crossed paths, strayed apart and returned to once again. From that first day I awoke from the nightmare reminiscence haunting my every darkest hour, wrought from a fatigue of body and mind at the end of a cleansing of the now-empty Dead Scar reached no successful end, seeing her face as she stood over me, have we known each other.

The Dead Scar: the charred, lifeless ground marking the unholy blight of a path the Scourge scarred through our lands, our kingdom and our people as the abominable army of Arthas Menethil marched on our Sunwell. Once what lay at the end, Deatholme, the citadel of the Scourge, now stood a holy citadel and testament to our people's perseverance, cleansed by holy light banishing the putrid presence of unlife Dar'khan Drathir pervaded upon the lands. Down that bleak path have I found new life, not once, but twice: Bringing I to Nyssa, M'uru and the path of the Light, and returned from that path's end: my life now—my path—as the Executioner.

Lady Nyssa waits for me at the bottom of the forge's stairs, relaxed on a bench watching the Farstriders practice their archery. She is an elegant and noble elven woman of long, red-hair, and world-weary yet hopeful green eyes set in a face worn of experience and age a match of my own. She wears the crimson and gold-trimmed plate armor of a Blood Knight—a Paladin of the Blood Elf people and Silvermoon. A spiked shield as tall as she and wider straps across her back, a long sword enchanted with flame sits off her hip, and her helmet, adorned by two demonic horns hangs off her other hip, the chin strap hooked into her belt. She has seen as much bloodshed as I, and as many years. More than many who now wear the crimson armor and call themselves of the Light. We are old, tired elves, yet as she turns her head up to look at me, her fel-corrupted eyes glimmer with devilish mirth and a smile to match. For all the troubles I have brought upon her, and for as often as I have danced with the darkness I destroy, Lady Nyssa has not given up on me, and for that, I am truly blessed.

"What have I now done?" I ask her at the look.

Her smile grows. She tosses to me a rag to wipe off the sweat and grime from my work. "Nothing I shall have to answer to Lady Liadrin for, at least," she says. She inspects me from head-to-toe. "Although, you may have to apologize to the Farstriders there for the number of recruits you have transfixed and distracted with that fiery visage of Ragnaros himself you have so kindled." She nods her head, indicating even now the eyes turned towards me; quickly turned away as I turn upon them.

I notice the Farstrider Captain's glare, and feel a sudden surge of self-consciousness, knowing for how long I have almost solely occupied the forge, yet to how unaware I was of my appearance to an outside observer. For all I had done for Silvermoon, I could not deny any elf the right to judge me unusual. I certainly had played the part. With a mind to social grace held so reverent by my supposedly enlightened peoples, I button up my shirt and unroll the sleeves, covering as much skin as possible. The sheathed sword strapped across my back is proof of my work, however.

I glance over my shoulder, yet do not see the tabby cat perched upon its anvil. "I have allowed myself a slight engrossment in my craft."

Nyssa stifles a socially unacceptable snickering, visible by the restraint on her face and betrayed by her eyes. "Rare is the fair elf that works with metal and fire," she says. "They spoiled dignitaries over there admire and are astounded by the sight of actual labor. And besides…" She leans closer in a whisper, "It keeps Champion Vranesh far, far away."

I try to return the smile she brings at mention of the refined Blood Knight male once Lady Nyssa's partner, and to whom she acted as not only keeper, but also adviser to one I received the impression of seeing little outside of our city's sanctuary walls. Vranesh came before I, and although I may often require her as my keeper, my reasons are far removed from the necessities of Vranesh. The problems I bring upon Lady Nyssa and her seemingly infinite patience are often of blood and ash.

I am not so far removed from this life as to not lower myself into a mocking bow to jest, "It pleases me to serve you so, my Lady." I straighten up as she loses the battle to keep her social face, and laughs—music to my ears. "If you would like, I could teach you? I am no expert, but we can begin with horseshoes, and from there, perhaps to repair."

"Oh, Light's grace," she says, still struggling against rogue bubblings of laughter. "Thank you, but I shall pass, Dawnstrider. I am no stranger to the filth through which we Blood Knight's must sometimes traipse, but an elf has to have her distinctions." She makes motion of inspecting the back of her hand for defect; mocking a lesser, more prim and proper elf, drawing a larger smile from I. She sees it and points a finger at my face, pointing me out. "That is new."

I realize what it is I do, and commit with difficulty to erase the expression off my face; returning to grim slate. "I suppose it is," I say, thoughtful. As I ponder this new aspect of myself, I glance down at Nyssa's hands. She does not carry the usual meal she has brought me all this week. "You knew I finished?"

She glances down at her hands, recognizing the signs I have seen. She shrugs. Her smile fades. "I could feel the strength of the Light through you," she says. "Everyone could, Dawnstrider." She is hesitant to meet my eyes, looking at the cobbled streets. "Somehow—through perhaps that Naaru—you grow stronger since Deatholme. It is not an apex or a plateau, Dawnstrider. It rises to a new peak every day, and with each hammer's blow, I could feel its release." She turns her head up to me, our eyes meeting once more. An expression is in her eyes I could believe to be deep concern. "I do not know what you are becoming, Cyndori Dawnstrider, but today I felt you reach a crescendo, and from that, I knew your time in the forge's fire was finished."

Nyssa reaches across the space between us and past my body, pushing with two fingers at the sheathed sword on my back. "Have you found what it is you seek?" She asks, and after a moment of quiet introspection, I feel it right to nod. "Good." Lady Nyssa turns and beckons to me to join her at her side. "Lady Liadrin has waited long enough. She summons you to the Hall of Champions, and by that extension, so summoned am I. The time to act upon the political ramifications of Dar'khan Drathir's head is upon us."

I join her, walking up even to her right side—the junior's place to a senior, even though the difference in our status becomes so strange: A Lady, a position subordinate only to the leader of the Blood Knight leader, Lady Liadrin, and a Knight, a mid-rank—my promotion from Adept bought in blood by our Ghostland campaign. I shall cut my own tongue before I speak openly of the substantial differences between our strength of the Holy Light, however.

"I should not participate in this process, Lady Nyssa," I say, walking alongside her as she walks across the square to our Champion's Hall. "You are very much my better at politics, and I believe myself unfit for the restraints required." I glance past her, past the walls of Silvermoon City. "I must admit, my mind in the forge drifted towards the Plaguelands; festering with undead, and from where this all began. There is where next I should be, I believe."

Nyssa shakes her head at me, and with a slight smile, reaches out to grasp hold of the sleeve of my shirt, as if I might flee. "You do not that easily escape your duties, Knight Dawnstrider," she says. "I know what it is that drives you: you will burn the entire Eastern Kingdoms to ash to destroy the Scourge. Yet you are just one elf. One very powerful elf, I give you that, but you are not the only individual the Scourge have hurt or threaten. They are the scourge of all of Azeroth, and the Regent Lord and our Lady wishes a hand in the affairs of burning them from the face of our world, as well as the hand of those we might call our allies: the Horde."

I cannot help the anger that surges through me, nor the betraying reaction on my face. "The Horde," I say, knowing I speak with no kindness in my words, "Bloodthirsty Orcs and barbarous Trolls. I cannot speak ill of the Tauren, but what it is they as a collective whole represent, I cannot agree." I observe Nyssa's face, knowing from that conversation beneath the debris of Windrunner Spire of her past, yet remind myself of the great discipline her past as a liaison would endow. Nyssa shows nothing to agree or disagree. "I cannot believe the Alliance would turn against us. These are strange times, indeed."

I notice a knowing smile finally appear on Nyssa's face, however. "It is stranger still, Dawnstrider," she says. "However, I believe, in time, you will come around." She pats my forearm and releases it from her grip. "The times are indeed strange, yet different. Approach them with an open mind, and you may well be surprised. As for you, however…" She leans in and smells of me. "The first meaningful step in any political career is a bath. You smell, and I will not have you dressed in those rags before our Lady."

I pull at my shirt, covered in grime and sweat. She waves me off upstairs as we enter Champion's Hall. The masons still work at patching up the hole in the bath wall.

* * *

Stepping out of the bath a little while later, a towel around me and working another along with a comb through shoulder-length silver and black hair, a young squire is waiting for me, standing beside a cross stand holding up a suit of deep red plate. The squire is a short, tawny-haired male, the start of a goatee the color of his hair growing on a face barely from the cradle.

I nod at the squire holding a black undershirt and pair of trousers under one arm. "Lady Nyssa sends her regards, Knight Dawnstrider," the young elf says with a bow.

"Thank you, Squire…?" I ask, walking over to trace a finger across the front of the expensive-in-appearance armor. The metal feels new, as if only a few minutes separated from the fire forging it. There is warmth about it I cannot deny as my imagination. The armor feels forged from felsteel and demonic fire.

"Sir?"

"What is your name, son?" I trace my finger across sharp spikes embedded in the shoulders. The same spikes in the elbow joints and the front and back of the boots. There are symbols engraved in the armor, and by the appearance, the tool used was of a flamed point great enough in temperature to blacken the metal with its passage. The symbols become clearer in my mind as I stare at them, and I realize they are in no language I immediately know. Strangely, just as I can read the names of my dead wife and child engraved into my sword by my hand, a pattern forms in my mind, engraved above the knuckles of the right gauntlet—my sword arm, forming the word: "Bane".

"Squire Brighthawk, sir," he says, my questions make the young elf nervous.

"A fine family name, Squire Brighthawk," I reply, holding my hand out for the undershirt and trousers he holds, veiling my curiosity over the armor's strange symbols. By the looks of the armor, I wonder if I should wear more clothing underneath. As I retreat behind the purple silk veils to change into the garment, I inquire, "And to whom do you apprentice, Squire?"

He stumbles for words, obviously unused to speaking to seniors treating him with such congeniality. "I do not know, Knight Dawnstrider."

I make a thoughtful sound, to let him know I am listening. "It is not I, is it, Squire?"

I hear him physically fumble for words at that question, and learn a little more about my reputation amongst the Blood Knights. "It is not to my knowledge, Knight Dawnstrider."

I return from behind the veil, dirty clothes neatly folded underneath an arm, walking back to the squire and the armor. "Perhaps it is for the best, then," I remark, keeping my voice devoid of approval or disapproval. I inspect my armor once again for the Squire's benefit. "An interesting piece, Squire Brighthawk. Did Lady Nyssa say from where she procured it?"

Brighthawk shakes his head. "No, Knight Dawnstrider. She merely wished me to fit you in such a fine piece. The Lady made mention of your, ah, inexperience in heavier armors, Knight Dawnstrider."

I tilt my head at the armor in a manner I hope is humorous to the squire. "This much is quite true, son." Indeed, I had worn nothing heavier than leather in my time as a Farstrider. This would prove an interesting experience. I look at the squire, raising a brow. "Will it pinch horribly, I wonder?"

Squire Brighthawk finally smiles, and shakes his head. "I shall do my best to avoid it, Knight Dawnstrider." He moves forward as I offer an arm and a leg, unsure of where to begin. "It is best to start this particular piece of armor from the chest, Knight Dawnstrider, as the outside pieces move independent above the larger center pieces."

I nod my approval, although I know little of what he speaks. "Please, just call me 'Knight' or 'Dawnstrider', Squire Brighthawk," I say. "Rest your verbosity for the Lord and Ladies."

He pulls the chest piece off the cross and holds it up to the front of my chest. "Yes, Knight," he says, nodding his head upwards. "A little higher, if you please?"

"Ah, of course," I remark, raising my arms higher. I pay attention as we spend the next near half-hour fitting the armor. Light save me if I ever have to fit this armor without a Squire's assistance.

As we finally finish, the squire rolls one of many mirrors found in Silvermoon across the floor, allowing I to inspect myself wearing my new armor. I look as heavy as I feel, and must take the perspective that as the strength of the Light flows through me, the weight of the plate is enough to weigh down regardless. The chest plate is ribbed, the edges and draping folds over elbow and joint, sharp. The shoulders are smaller than expected, shaped as if half of a curved blade, and given the armor's pervasive attitude; more of another edged surface to utilize than protective. Squire Brighthawk hands me a full-faced helmet shaped as the face of some demonic warlord from the Nether, the edges over the raised slits for the ears are razor edged, and the flip-up face is a flat plate of smaller slits allowing air to flow. A strip of red, translucent crystal across allows I to see out and to the sides with an acceptable field of view, glowing a dull green, the color of my eyes, as I flip the face down to look through.

"Fine work, Squire Brighthawk," I compliment as he hands my sword, struggling with its great weight that I can move around with little effort.

"Thank you, Knight Dawnstrider."

I remove the helmet and follow Lady Nyssa's example by strapping it to the side of my armor. "I will convey my gratitude to Lady Nyssa, as well, Squire Brighthawk. However, would you please show me the way? I admit; I have spent only brief amounts of time within these halls."

He nods and waves for me to follow. Though I can sense Lady Nyssa's presence and may find my way to her without assistance, I ask him to do so, as I spend more effort just keeping my balance as I adjust to the weight of the armor than I can spend tracking through the corridors. The Squire leads I back out into the main hall, where Lady Liadrin, Lady Nyssa, and much to my surprise, a large group consisting of bodyguards, personal servants and various assistants tend to a group of three distinguished elves speaking amongst themselves and to the two Ladies. Squire Brighthawk nods to I and disappears quickly, knowing more than I, I am sure.

Lady Liadrin beckons to me with an impatient wave of her hand. As I approach, I nod my head to the four elves, recognizing their nobility by their clothing alone. "Knight Dawnstrider," the Lady speaks, "I would like to introduce you to our most wise leader and _your_ Regent Lord."

I move to my place beside Lady Nyssa, all the while observing and sensing the three elves' presence. The tallest elf, standing between his fellows, is of an impressive, commanding presence; his left eye a milky white, no doubt lost in battle with the Scourge, raises my impression of the elf with the white, topknot hair. He looks at I as I look at him. Neither of us nods. On his right, stands an elf of rugged, wind-touched nature; a strong longbow and quiver over his back and a rustic brown cloak flowing around his legs, marks him as a Farstrider. We meet eyes, but I am aware enough of protocol to abstain from greeting a lesser in the presence of their superior. A superior I decide upon as I glance over a smaller, shorthaired elf standing to the left, a cloth covering his mouth and a staff over his back pronouncing him as still lesser. A simple practitioner of the arcane compared to the tall, fascinating elf who could only be the Regent Lord.

"My Lord," I lower my head.

"A wary Blood Knight you are, Knight Dawnstrider," the Regent Lord says, returning a shallower nod of his head.

"Enemies are everywhere, my Lord. They take of many shapes, names and faces." I glance over at Nyssa, who warns me to mind my step without saying a word, just a look from the corner of her eye. "Dar'khan was once one of the Covenant of Silvermoon. Arthas Menethil, a Prince of Lordaeron, welcome in our halls."

"A point unfortunately proven true by history," he says. "But that is history, and history to be rectified. History you, Lady Nyssa, and the brave souls of Tranquillien rectified." He glances over the both of us; the relief of his and my companions palpable. "I know you, now, as Knight Cyndori Dawnstrider; and as I have been led to believe, you shall know me now as, Lord Lor'themar Theron, Regent Lord of Silvermoon and all Blood Elves while our Prince Kael'thas tends to the Outland crusade." He steps back and indicates with his right hand to the Farstrider beside him.

The Farstrider and I exchange similar salutes: fists to our chests and a bow at the hip. "Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing," he introduces himself. "Lady Nyssa has spoken kind words of you, and of your time with us as a Farstrider, Captain." He nods, and I nod as well. His sense of tact is great, to mention not the rift between Farstriders and Blood Knights.

"I am relieved to see the Farstriders prevail and flourish, Ranger-General," I say. "Your Captain Helios and his Farstriders performed above and beyond the call in Silvermoon and Tranquillien's service." Formalities and compliments paid between us, the commander of all Farstriders steps back, allowing the arcanist on Lord Theron's side to introduce himself, as I am already properly introduced by Lady Nyssa and Liadrin in my stead.

"Grand Magister Rommath," he says. "I am entrusted by our noble Prince in his stead, as he carries our banner to the promised Outland, to thank you and Lady Nyssa for this traitor's head. He shall hear of this deed." With that, he steps back, for I believe we both have nothing to say to each other, as we share nothing similar save our perceived hatred of Dar'khan.

Lord Theron steps forward to retake his position of authority. He fixes eyes with Lady Liadrin. "Now then," he says to her. "Let us see this head, so we might assess its fitness for a spear."

"Yes, My Lord," Lady Liadrin says, and nods back at a Blood Knight Champion covered completely by plate heavier than mine.

The Blood Knight offers a moist, green sack to Lady Liadrin, who scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. The elf turns and offers it to Lady Nyssa, who takes it from him and quickly passes it on to I. I grab hold of the sack from the bottom, and upturn it. The charred, festering, almost unrecognizable head of Dar'khan Drathir lands on the floor with a wet smack; rolling to a stop on my toes, leaving a trail of broiled skin and puss. I give it a nudge with my foot, sending it rolling towards Lord Theron, earning a disgusted look from all present save for the disbelieving look Nyssa tries to hide, and Lord Theron's intensely curious gaze.

Lord Theron produces a long blade from beneath the folds of his cloak, impaling the head with it at the throat and lifting it to eye level. He turns the head around once, inspecting it with a thoughtful musing. "Well, it certainly appeared to have hurt," he says. "Pity he is not more identifiable. It will be slightly more difficult proving this is the traitor's head to those unfamiliar with those wretched, ghoulish features."

"It took a great amount of my power to cleanse Deatholme, my Lord," I say. "I did not have the necessary force remaining to disintegrate him completely."

"You would have." Lord Theron offers the head for Brightwing's inspection.

The Ranger-General nods, his face set grim. "I will sign the declaration, if Lady Windrunner requires."

"There may be no need," Lord Theron says. He offers the head to Rammoth, who makes a repulsed sound in his throat and raises a warding hand. Lord Theron chuckles. "Consensus is made: This is Dar'khan Drathir." He inspects the head one more time on the end of his blade before offering it to I. I open the sack, catching the head within and resealing the sack with rope. "So ends a dark chapter in our people's history. And as it does, so opens a new one, written with a prologue of hope for a brighter future, devoid of scum such as Dar'khan."

I tuck the sack under my left arm for safekeeping. For as long as I entrusted it to the Blood Knights while I forged anew my sword, I am finished, and this head is mine. Spoils of vengeance claimed by the one who performed the deed.

"If it is your wish, my Lord," Lady Liadrin offers. "I shall personally deliver the head and your letter to Undercity, and from there, Ogrimmar."

"Oh, my dear Lady, I understand the proper protocol," Lord Theron says, "but in this instance, I believe the victors shall deliver the spoils." He looks upon Lady Nyssa and I with a small smile that one could perceive as truth.

"My Lord, I must respectfully disagree," Lady Liadrin says and raises an arm and finger at I. "As capable a candidate for such a mission our Lady Nyssa shall prove; I do not believe Knight Dawnstrider ready to perform such a sensitive diplomatic mission on behalf of Silvermoon and the Blood Elves. He is still but a mere Knight." The subtle jab at my present and previous actions does not go unnoticed.

I do not miss Lord Theron staring at the morbid sack underneath my arm as he says, "Dear Lady, I could not think of a pair of elves more ready to act as our benefactors to the Forsaken and the greater Horde, than the Blood Knights stood before us."

Lady Nyssa drops to a knee without warning, bowing her head towards the Regent Lord. "We thank you for the wisdom in entrusting us with this most important endeavor on the behalf of Silvermoon," she says, and without breaking the flow of her words, reaches up, latches onto my armor, and pulls me down to join her in the gesture of respect. "We shall honor Silvermoon, our people, and all of their struggles."

I do not need to feel the physical jab Nyssa delivers. The one spoken without words in the space of words unspoken is more than sufficient. "Yes, my Lord."

"Excellent!" Lord Theron says. "On to the Undercity with you two, then. The fate of our alliance with the Horde, and the well-being of our people, depends upon you."

* * *

A little while after the departure of the Regent Lord and his advisors, Lady Nyssa and I load a pair of beautiful, powerful, armored Thalassian warhorses with the provisions necessary for a week's trip. Lady Liadrin looks on from the high, arching doorway to Champions' Hall; her discontent obvious.

I stroke the neck of my horse—a black and red beast as tall as I, adorned in bronze livery and standing patient and docile to my experienced touch. I smile at Lady Nyssa, who smiles snidely back as she has some trouble steadying hers, succeeding after a pair of tries. "Say nothing, Dawnstrider," she warns.

We are to set out to some device Lady Nyssa describes as a Translocator; which, if works as described, will utilize arcane magic to teleport us across the great, diseased lands of the Plaguelands and north upon the continent so-called, Eastern Kingdoms, into the Undercity. I have never used such a device before, but entrust in Nyssa to lead I not astray.

"Nyssa," I draw her attention away from her horse for a moment, speaking in a low enough voice Lady Liadrin cannot hear. "Do you remember that night we assaulted Windrunner Spire?"

She fakes despair in response. "How could one forget? I was nearly crushed."

Yes, that was indeed my fault as well; utilizing the great destructive force that is my blessing of the Light with the tunnel vision of one obsessed, I brought down two floors of stone from many stories above the cliffs of the Great Sea. I had not taken into account the breadth of the destruction I ravaged upon the Spire, in my pursuit of one lone banshee. By a breath's moment, did I jump down and pull Nyssa up from her fall, protecting us both with a shield of Light's intervention for hours. The debris rained down upon us in great stacks of slab, the drain of power immense upon I; we were fortunate that the Forsaken, Keaver, found and rescued us. However, in that time isolated and cast off as lost, crushed under so many tons, I made a promise to Nyssa. A promise I remembered and intended to fulfill.

I open my palm to the large slabs interconnected to form a road in front of Champions' Hall. "For fair winds at our back, good roads and promises kept." I push a wave of holy Light down my arm and through my hand. The golden energy pools upon the road and takes shape as it accelerates: a herd of wild horses, powerful muscles propelling them forward and into the distance; they reach the bend in the road before fading away.

Lady Nyssa genuinely smiles at me. She says nothing. She does not have to. With a prodding and a whistled command to her horse, Nyssa guides her horse from the stables and waves for me to follow.

We set out for Undercity.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Enthralling streams of brilliant lights shift through an azure sea of indeterminable energy. Particles and coalescent patterns shift to and from the mind and the eye's sensible spectrums as foam and glimmering waves upon the arcane waters we tread. The Translocator's stunning panorama obliterates every speck of our mortal being, from the great mass of our skin, to the most insignificant cell of our blood. We arrive within the slate stone walls of Undercity reborn; churned through forces of magic subtly weaving throughout our universe the taste of bitter alkaline on the tongue at its passage; spat back into coherency with the arrogant, apathetic grace of the practitioners who forged the device. I blink away the arcane aftermath still blurring my vision, seeing and sensing no near enemies that might lie in ambush as I steady my warhorse spooked by a transition through time, space and matter its simpler mind could not possibly comprehend.

I take stock of the large, empty corridor in which we landed, cast into perpetual gloom by a sky seemed cursed forever to darkness by some atmospheric rot akin to the gloom of the Ghostlands; if landed is the proper word for such a movement. The great, weather-beaten walls rose above both Nyssa and I confine us as vermin within a maze to a featureless stretch of stone having only one exit—through tall wooden and iron doors hanging barely and broken onto their hinges. The Translocator hums with a gentle, belied energy behind us. We are at the far end from the doors; as well trapped as I am sure the designer intended welcome and unwelcome visitors at the corridor's dead end. The defenders and planners of the Undercity quite apparently took no chances with those who might use the Translocator with the intent of bypassing all external defenses. Such preparation I can appreciate.

I extend my senses, sending invisible strands of the Light's grace through crack in wall, doorway and gate, sensing many cold, dark voids of unlife underneath and around us: the mark of the Scourge, and the Forsaken.

I sense two familiar voids approach from the doors, and turn to Lady Nyssa. "It seems they knew of our journey."

Nyssa turns her eyes down the corridor, to the doors of which my gaze focuses. She straightens the packs on her horse, still working to settle her mount. I would assist, but know the care and upkeep of her riding skill—a Blood Knight's pride—dictates she take care of her own without outside assistance. "I doubt the secret was kept tight to anyone's chest," she says. "Not a matter of this regard, and as tardy we are to the inevitable."

Two Forsaken turn the door's corners, strolling side-by-side in a half-limp, half-trudge that an undead creature short of ligaments, tendons, muscles and bones carries itself. Regardless of knowing their identities by their familiar auras, I am still amused to see High Executor Mavren wearing still its heavy mail and a great sword across its hunched-over back. Walking alongside Mavren's left is the malcontent, disgruntled, and so-claimed underpaid Keaver. Its eyes still covered by two straps of leather forming an X around his head; Keaver must sense I, for it looses a sigh of resigned fates upon this realization.

No matter their personal quirks, the Forsaken pair are quite accomplished. The High Executor led the coalition of Forsaken and Blood Elf forces during the war against Deatholme, and led at the front at the final siege. Keaver, on the other hand—for as much as it might deny—proved instrumental in not only guiding Nyssa and I through the Ghostland campaign, but also took lives during the battle for Windrunner Spire, and most importantly, saved Nyssa and I's life; rescuing us with explosives from underneath tons of slab from the Spire's ruination at my hand.

"Well, isn't this a bright, disgusting day?" Mavren says, raising a skeletal hand in greeting. "Welcome to our gloomy little abode, elves."

"It is…uncomfortable being here, once again, Executor," Nyssa says. "How are you holding together?"

Mavren throws its hands into the air with gallows humor and vigor. "With stitches and animal glue, my dear! Stitches and glue!" Its rasped cackle still unsettles.

"Keaver," I greet, nodding towards the smaller Forsaken.

Although it has no eyes, Keaver still manages to fix I with a stare and a sneer. "I still don't like you, brighty."

"No hard feelings, then?"

Keaver makes a garbling sound in its throat, as if frothing blood, and turns to its superior to say, "This tears my ligament, then: I am not paid enough for this crap." Keaver points a bony finger at I. "It's bad enough to have one Light-touched amongst us, but have that one over there tone down the sun before he tans the Dark Lady's decrepit skin."

Mavren reaches over, grabbing hold of the leather straps around Keaver's head, hooking a finger between it and the skin, it pulls Keaver over as if a petulant child to speak in a low voice in whatever Keaver now used for a ear, "I am sure the Lady can take care of herself, lout, but keep it up, and your ligament won't be the only thing tearing." Mavren snaps Keaver's strap back to its head with a loud snap. Mavren manages to face us once again, completely devoid of any anger and just a hint of pleasantness appearing painful to the stretch of cadaverous skin composing its pallid face. "Yes, where were we?"

I tilt my head at Keaver. "What does it mean, about my brightness?"

"You poor living bag of redundant organs, you don't know?" Mavren raises a finger and waves it about in the air. The exposed joints click together. "We undead cannot physically see you, you see?" It leans in after the terrible pun and applies the tip of the same finger to the taut skin below its yellow eye devoid of pupil or iris. It tries to stretch the skin, to make the eye more apparent, but over time and decomposition, the skin has shrunk and tightened against its skull before the unlife granted by the Scourge's plague reanimated and warded his corpse against decay. "The nerves back here are quite dead. Nothing goes to the brain, you see? Well, if we had working brains, or nerves, or hearts, or other, unnecessary items, after the Bitch King and his gleeful plague made a magical mockery of life, essentially pulling our strings of vein, synapse and sinew. I see you both as shades of well-refined heat, and the aura of magic run through you." Mavren pulls his head back and stares at I. "You especially disgust me. You suck fresh crawler eggs, you pleasant little sunbeam."

"I can see upon what foundations my people and your kind share allegiance: You have the most endearing insults, and we may lash you with our infinite, arrogant, egotistic insults, to your enjoyment." I ponder for a moment, making theater of holding my chin in my hand. "I believe the proper protocol as an ambassador to your kind, is to note your terrible stench and the faltering state of our trade of mirrors."

Mavren cackles, lowering into a bone creaking and ligament-popping, sweeping bow. "Deliciously mean spirited and spoken with terrible sense of tact, Ambassador Dawnstrider," he says. "You and the most honorable and beautiful Lady Nyssa come of fair face, good and honest intentions, and groomed to the highest of standards."

"We wish only the continuation and strengthening of our allegiance, High Executor Mavren," Lady Nyssa says, her eyes tracking between us. A set of yellow eyes, a leather-masked face, and green eyes turn to her, expecting what she eventually accepts as the inevitable. Nyssa sighs, rubbing the palm of her hand into her forehead. "And that our mutual grave plots erupt with bountiful fodder."

"That's more like it, my dear!" Mavren exclaims, and turns around, shambling for the stairs at corridor's end, waving for us to follow. "Come. There will be a slight tour of our most derelict city, and then we must see to not seeing the Dark Lady, you see?"

Keaver groans. "Please stop with the puns, Executor, before I shackle myself to a priest."

"Priest? You aren't fit for the choir boy's attention, you insignificant speck of animate fertilizer."

Nyssa turns to look at I, raising a long eyebrow as the two Forsaken walk ahead, passing insults still. I shrug and take hold of my horse's reins, guiding it down the corridor to catch up with them.

* * *

"Whatever became of that insufferably insufferable Dame of yours, anyways?" Mavren asks as we cross an open courtyard more befitting the atmosphere of a graveyard. Given the current residents, it is not far from the literal truth; yet the presence of a headless statue of a man as the centerpiece drapes the entire macabre manifestation in surreal disturbance. There is a dissonance, here. The same great wood and iron gates used as a moat bridge lends not this Undercity the impression of a haunt of undeath, but as something borrowed; the tenants—cockroaches amongst a mansion of murdered masters.

"Off to higher office on the credits of her accomplishments in the Ghostlands, I am sure," Lady Nyssa replies.

"Bah," Mavren throws arms into the air in frustration. "If it weren't for us Forsaken, her prissy little army couldn't have beaten the puss from a larval maggot." Mavren moves its head enough to glance at us out of what I am sure would be the corner of its eye, if it had eyes of any physical meaning. "You may take offense to that."

"We shall," jests Nyssa. "Likewise, if it were not for the Blood Knights, we would all still wallowing in that depressing darkness, at Dar'khan's mercy."

"I happen to like depressing darkness, thank you very much," remarks Keaver. "So long as things aren't lurking in there, trying to eat my spoiled flesh. Besides…" It points across all of us, to I on the other side of Nyssa. "If it wasn't for Sunny Boy over there, you Blood Knights would still be having your merry little contests over who could piss further into the wind."

I move to deflect. "And if it were not for Captain Helios discovering Dar'khan's journal, and the most putrid High Executor amongst us leading all of the armies from the Dead Scar itself, none of this may have occurred."

"Taurenshit!" Nearly howls Mavren. "The Royal Apothecary Society took great interest in the dust of those stones supposedly powering the Ziggurats and Deathome's Scourge barrier with the power of your lost Sunwell." It points an accusing, sharp-boned finger at I. "They were fakes!"

Keaver casts a surprised and curious glance in my direction, and so does Nyssa, even though she was with me at the time at the barrier, where we met face-to-face with Dar'khan Drathir, the master of Deatholme, at the time.

"They were," I say as neutral as I can. We walk through a broken arch of a doorway, and into a small, ruined corridor full of masonry rubble. Our footfalls and voices echo eerily, returning our words amplified to uncomfortable levels.

"So," Mavren pursues the line of reasoning I have since thought worth abandoning and never speaking of again. "That means Dar'khan planted the journal, so we'd find it and frolic about his little game. To think, he was probably laughing his corpse ass off at us, at the time." It shakes its head in disbelief. Mavren looks back up at I. "The bastard was leading us into a trap, wasn't he? He wanted us to gather all of our armies at the footsteps of Deatholme, all cock sure about our success; to do what?"

"You saw the army he hid beneath the ground, I am sure."

"I certainly did," Keaver says.

Mavren turns a devastating glare upon the other Forsaken. "Oh, sure, which Blood Elf's dress were you hiding under, puss bucket? 'Observing', my ruptured spleen…"

I kept walking, but Mavren clears it throat of whatever bile might clog it, and quickens its pace to move ahead of I. "Oh no you don't, elf. You don't see our Dark Lady without first coming up with a very elaborate excuse to why you kept this little secret from me. I'm obviously very pissed, you see?" Its face doesn't change expressions. Pissed seems the default.

"You and the combined armies of Tranquillien were in no danger, High Executor," I explain. "From the first day I observed the Scourge barrier—the same day we arrived—I knew I could shatter it with just the Light's power granted to I."

"You _knew_?" Nyssa asks, almost sounding hurt. She and the two Forsaken stare at I, clearly displeased. "So, the assault on Suncrown, nearly dying at Windrunner Spire, and the entire western offensive and siege of Deatholme was what, then, Cyndori Dawnstrider? Did you just enjoy the suffering and deaths as part and parcel?"

I shake my head, knowing the revelation would hurt, and thus why I dodged about the question before as best I could. "No, the extinguishment of so many lives and loss of Forsaken wills gave me no pleasure," I say. "If it were revealed to Dar'khan we were capable of shattering the barrier, he would have prepared his defenses with far more vigor, and perhaps prepared an escape if it became obvious we would overrun him." I lower my head, looking to the ground as we walk. "After all of the effort, the idea of Dar'khan escaping and the waste of so much live and efforts, justified to I the necessities of flowing perfectly along with his plot.

"Yes, it was terrible what the forces of Tranquillien suffered, but I hold no reservation over the pain and suffering wrought upon the Scourge annihilated by the offensives. We were in no danger of losing those battles, Nyssa. I would not have allowed it. I would have intervened and destroyed every Scourge behind us, before moving on. It was just the necessities of acquiescing to Dar'khan's arrogance to perform the maneuvers as we did, so to lead him into the trap. When Dar'khan emerged to gloat, he sealed his own fate, you understand?"

"'They're fake'" Nyssa says.

"They were," I repeat.

An unpleasant look on her face as foul as the Forsaken's behind her, Nyssa raises a finger to accuse, "No, 'They're fake, and you are in reach'. You spoke those words to Dar'khan before you thrust your weapon through the barrier, and him. As much as I wish to believe you had a greater plan in mind, those words rung now through my mind and cold through my heart, tell me you did not. You desired only to lure Dar'khan into a trap of your own. A cruel trap, was it not? You _gloated_, Cyndori Dawnstrider. You gloated as much if not worse than Dar'khan; knowing you could shatter the barrier."

"I wanted him in reach, Nyssa. I wanted him to understand fear. The same fear he and his Scourge army wreaked upon the innocent. I wanted to wipe that arrogant look from his face, and then turn his flesh to blackened ash, so he may never again smile, weep or cry out in agony." I feel the rage rise in my heart, remembering that day. Belatedly realizing in the act of doing so, I lean my head in closer to Nyssa's. "And when I caught up to him in that nightmarish citadel of his, I ripped his entire jaw off so that vile mouth would fall forever mute. And as I had him at my feet, I gave him as much mercy as he gave to all others: None. He begged for his pathetic life—though he had neither tongue nor lips to do so—and I killed him as I would kill him and any other terror from the darkness: Excruciatingly painful, soiling themselves and weeping in fear of _me_. And I _reveled_ in it, Nyssa. There is nothing else in this life I find any remaining worth in, than acting as the Light's Executioner, and I will continue reigning annihilation and terror upon those who would reign the same upon us all, until the Light disowns I, or I keel over and die."

"You mean, how they reigned terror and annihilation over your long-dead wife and child, yes, Dawnstrider?" Nyssa asks. Her face set to granite. I begin to say something, but she turns her head and walks further ahead of us; her back set to I, but not before saying one more thing over her shoulder, "You have nothing. You are nothing, following this path, Dawnstrider." She turns a corner and exits my sight.

"Smooth," remarks Keaver.

Mavren rounds on Keaver, grabbing it by the front of his tunic and lifting it off the ground, warning, "Open that worthless mouth of your again, maggot, and I'll stitch your lips closed for a century, understand?" The way Mavren said it, left no interpretation they might be joking once again in that playful, hateful manner the two Forsaken have before.

"No," I say to the two. "Forget this conversation, please." I walk ahead of them, knowing I must catch up to Nyssa. "Our problems should not burden upon yours."

"The pretty little fleshbag says he has problems, to a walking corpse," Keaver says and laughs—a hoarse sound.

As I turn the corner after Nyssa, I hear Mavren snicker at the joke…right before he pops Keaver in the jaw with the hollow crack of exposed bone-on-bone. "Discipline will be enforced, of course, coffin warmer."

* * *

"Nyssa," I say, catching up to her in a massive hall, a great throne as its centerpiece. The high ceiling and walls impress in the sensation of authoritive warmth with which they encase the noble hall and, perhaps once long ago, the noblesque and their court. As Nyssa stands at the filthy, stained marble steps leading in front of the throne, staring with her back turned towards me, I reach out for her, yet stop.

I hear bells.

I hear great bells, the powerful, solid, reassuring sounds of what sounds as if a giant church bell calling the faithful to the congregation, or perhaps a bell heralding great events of the king and his court; or perhaps, just as the phantasmal sound reverberates within my chest, the bells are a warning of great danger's approach. And amongst the bells, the sounds drifting in from outside, behind I, I can hear the rising tide of an ocean of voices, calling out in a combined cacophony drowning out the individual tumults. I look back, but do not see Mavren or Keaver following. Instead, a single red petal drifts underneath a grand door not there before.

Someone comes; I hear their heavy footsteps approach. I step back as the heavy doors swing inwards, slamming into the walls with great force; thrown open by a tall, heavyset man dressed in black, silver skulls adorning the knees of his plate armor leggings. The doors banging against the walls leave an impression in the stone from where they collide. The man marches past without noticing my presence and into the hall, followed by two more smaller men dressed in the same black, hooded garb covering their faces and forms.

I turn, watching; realizing two guards in heavy, shining plate stand now by the entrance I am at, paying me no mind as well. Their armor shines brilliantly from golden rays of sun I realize stream through from the ceiling and from outside. Their and my attention focus upon the three men in black as they stop in the middle of the room and before an ancient-in-appearance human king who struggles to lift himself from his throne. The man in black draws an evil-looking yet familiar sword, plants it into the ground, and takes a respectful knee in front of his king.

"Ah, my son," the king says with open arms. "I knew—"

The man in black—his son—talks in a dark, calm, quiet, foreboding voice, "You no longer have to sacrifice for your people. You no longer have to bear the weight of your crown. I've taken care of everything." He raises his head, and as he does, he pulls back his hood to reveal long, white hair, the frostbitten misery of the frozen north run through it.

My heart skips a beat as surprise. Realization sets in. The chill I feel in the dead remnants of this forsaken kingdom instantly banished by absolute, burning rage. "Arthas!" I draw my sword. Yet, as I charge, I feel some strange, unseen drag against my body. The traitor moves away from me, to the king—his father—and I cannot catch up to him. Some outside force greater than the Light coursing through I denies my revenge.

Arthas' heavy, armor-laden footsteps fall with resounding force upon the clean, shining, marble stairs as he approaches his father, King Terenas Menethil, ruler of the human kingdom of Lordaeron. Arthas has the ancient evil and corrupting abomination of metal and ice, Frostmourne, in hand.

"What is this?" Terenas asks, confused by his son's unexpected actions. Arthas wraps his arm around his father's shoulder. The half-embrace seems warm, between father and son. "What are you doing, son?" The embrace is a lie.

"No!" Arthas is so far away. He brings Frostmourne back, poised for the inevitable. I will not reach him in time.

"Seceding you…father," Arthas says. His voice never changes octaves or its terrible intent. He plunges Frostmourne through Terenas Menethil—the man who brought him into this world and who raised him from an infant, with no remorse or visible emotion. With one last cruel motion, he pushes his father off his blade, and allows him to crumple to the ground. The crown of Lordaeron falls and rolls down the throne's steps, covered in blood.

Arthas turns, and for a moment, I hope he may see me and the eternal, murderous intent I have for him. "This kingdom shall fall," he speaks over the surreal ringing of the bells. "And from the ashes, shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundation of the world."

I have a foot now on the throne steps. He is in reach. I bring my sword back, fire in my veins, hate in my heart, blackness in my soul, and red—the color of blood I will spill—in my vision. "Fall to hell and suffer!" I bring my sword around at his neck.

"Cyndori!" A high-pitched shriek pierces and disperses the form of Arthas in front of me, leaving only Nyssa, her eyes wide, terrified; her back to the very throne Terenas Menethil was murdered upon. I pull my swing up and over her head, cutting the upper half of the throne completely off. The tip of my sword gouges deep into the stone wall backing the throne, melting a blackened trench at its passage. Nyssa rolls away from the throne and comes up with her sword drawn and shield held at the ready. Her entire body shakes. I have never seen her so terrified.

The heat of my rage reverses as quickly as it came into the ice fingers of dread crawling up my spine and prickling through my arms and legs. I realize what I almost did: killing Nyssa in the path of revenge. The realization hits him home with greater force than any foe could ever inflict. This is what absolute terror feels like.


	4. An End

((This is not a new chapter, I'm sorry to say. Unfortunately, this story, and more importantly, the character, must come to an unavoidable and necessary end. For you see, I don't believe I am alone when I say that deep down, in that dark pit of angst and quiet, lingering, entrenched psychological scars that fuels the creative urge, lies the siren's call of the soul to inflict upon paper, canvas, text and even the reader themselves the same hurt or happy scars and joys the writer feels. Perhaps subconsciously so, do we contrive characters and craft a conspiratorial plot, simply because, deep down there, lurks the incessant urge to express what it is that afflicts and drives us.

For Cyndori Dawnstrider, it was anger. Seething, black, sadistic, joyous anger; suppressed for years by a cover of stoic calm and a cool, external façade of discipline, belying the internal turmoil of failure after personal failure, and a decision to once again claim the profession of a soldier, simply to pay the bills. Backed with nothing but wall, this writer spent a year in Iraq, and in that time festered a hate towards their coworkers and their task further stirred by the flames of distant disconnection from family and friends, and the stress of long hours and daily risks of violent end.

To the ends of relieving this building pressure that led to self-loathing and the rage of self-knowing one's failures and shortcomings, Cyndori Dawnstrider was born by chance; a random character created in the World of Warcraft who took a life of his own. My unhappy puppet, my avatar of discord—the Light's Executioner, the anti-hero, murderer, destroyer, and villain serving the Light's need, as a weapon, and no more. Cyndori Dawnstrider was everything that was wrong with me, packaged in a story sufficiently masking the creation's true intentions, in the name of simple fanfiction. The same lie many of us say to ourselves and believe in, when our romances are cries for love and happier lives, and our dark fics are rages against the dying of the light, outside and inwards.

But a year after he began, I have calmed myself, and understand now just what this character and this story meant: My heart was filled with anger. Anger that hurt not only me, but also the people around me. As Cyndori Dawnstrider hurt those who believed in him, so did I hurt the ones who loved me. Learning this, knowing this, and accepting this—I choose to rid myself of my anger, and its avatar.

With a heart cleansing of such black hate, I let go of Cyndori Dawnstrider, and hope he too, one day, learns to let go of his own.

Thank you for reading.))


End file.
